Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“I’m trying to,” I answered. “So, who would benefit most by their being found? You and your sister and your children.”

“And me,” Conrad Lonsberg said.

“And you,” I agreed. “No one else could sell them or publish them. They are all copyrighted. Adele might also find a fanatic collector, which I understand exist, but that’s not what she’s after.”

I felt a little like Charlie Chan with a room full of suspects-only it wasn’t who had done it that was the mystery but why.

Ames stepped back, probably getting ready for the suspect to pull a gun. Ames was my number two son or one of Nick Charles’s alerted cops. Only I already knew who did it.

“Why would Brad kill people to get our father’s manuscripts?” asked Laura.

It was the wrong question, but she didn’t know that.

“I had a friend check both of your financial records,” I said. “Right into your bank accounts. What he found surprised me. I gave the information to your father.”

Laura and Brad Lonsberg looked at their famous father who now looked old compared to Ames who stood almost at his side. Conrad Lonsberg looked away.

“Neither of you is wealthy but neither of you is exactly facing poverty or gambling debts or a failing business. In other words, no matter how mercenary you might be, you can afford to wait for your father to die. Sorry,” I said, turning to Lonsberg.

“You don’t have to be sorry for telling the truth. You might feel sorry for its existence in certain cases.”

“What’s your point here?” Laura said. “If the manuscripts were gone, Brad and I would have no inheritance.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but would you commit murder to save what Adele had stolen?”

“Why not?” asked Laura. “My father’s work is very valuable. What if one of us simply wanted to preserve what he has written and damn what they are worth in dollars?”

Through the window again the voice of a child, this time a boy whose voice had already changed, saying, “This is twice as big, midget.”

“Could be,” I said. “But neither of you has said anything that would support that. You still want the truth?” I asked Lonsberg.

He shook his head “yes.”

“What kind of man are you? What kind of father? What kind of grandfather?”

“A little distant,” he said. “Eccentric maybe.”

“What do you think about your children?” I pressed on, suddenly thinking about my wife, about the children she and I would never have.

“They’re very important to me.” he said.

“More important than your writing? If someone had said thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Or today. If you had to stop writing or stop seeing your children and grandchildren, what would your answer be?”

Lonsberg lilted his head just a little to the left and said, “Irrelevant question.”

“No,” I said. “I think it’s part of the reason your son wanted to kill Adele. Want to tell the truth?”

“I’d die without my work,” he said, suddenly standing straight.

Brad Lonsberg laughed and shook his head.

“There’s your answer, Fonesca. His work over his children.”

“It’s a decision I don’t have to make,” said Lonsberg.

“I could have given you the answer,” Brad said. “He writes about love, gets into the minds and even the goddamn souls of children. He respects them, almost bleeds for them. Compassion and understanding for the children he created like Zeus from his head. More than for the ones he created with the juice of his body.”

It was Conrad Lonsberg’s turn to laugh. It wasn’t much of a laugh.

“That was a damn good comparison,” he said. “You should try writing.”

“I did,” Brad said with venom. “When I was a kid. I showed you a short story. You looked as if you didn’t want to read it. When you did, you gave it back and said, ‘Your characters don’t come alive.’ That was it. ‘Your characters don’t come alive.’”

“You don’t care if Adele destroys the manuscripts,” I said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Brad said. “I’d help her if I could. So, why would I go looking for them and kill people?”

Laura looked at me curiously. Conrad Lonsberg looked at Jefferson who was sound asleep.

“You weren’t after the manuscripts,” I said. “You were after Adele. You wanted to kill Adele.”

“Why the hell would I want to kill Adele? Dad, will you get this lunatic out of here?”

“No,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“Then I will,” said Brad, starting to get out of the chair.

He was a big man, in good condition. He would be slowed down by his leg, but I was still no match for him.

“Best sit down again,” Ames advised.

“Get the fuck out of here. Both of you,” Brad said, starting to sound more than a little frantic.

Ames stepped forward and opened his slicker just like a cowboy in an Italian western. There was a very large gun in his belt.

“You’re going to shoot me?” Brad said with a laugh.

“He’s done it before,” I said.

“He’d kill me because you think I want to kill Adele?”

“Before you got a step away from that chair,” said Ames evenly.

“I think all of you know why Brad wants Adele dead,” I said. “Why he was looking for her. Why he wanted to find her before I did. He took a shot at me. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You were trying to scare me off. Maybe you were just trying to frighten Flo Zink away so you could check her trunk. Did you think she was in there? Maybe at that point you were just looking for manuscripts.”

“Say it,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“Adele is pregnant,” I said. “The baby is Brad’s.”

“You’re crazy,” Brad said, squirming.

“Adele told me about an hour ago.”

“If she’s pregnant, I didn’t do it,” Brad said, pointing at himself.

“DNA,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“DNA,” gasped Brad, “DNA? How different is yours than mine? If she’s pregnant, you’re more likely than…”

“I used to do research for the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office in Cook County,” I said. “Your father and you don’t have exactly the same DNA. And I think you know it. You wanted Adele dead and hidden before anyone found out she was going to have a baby or could prove it was yours.”

“DNA,” Lonsberg said. “I’m leaving. I’m taking Connie and leaving. Don’t bother me again and, Dad, don’t bother calling me again.”

This time he did stand up, a little wobbly, and faced Ames.

“You going to shoot me for trying to leave?”

Ames looked at me. He would have had I given him a nod.

“If the dog did bite you,” I said, “he has your blood on his teeth. More DNA evidence. And I have the two notes you pinned on my door. The police should be able to match your handwriting.”

“Notes?” Brad Lonsberg said, looking genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t leave any notes on your door.”

I looked at him. His indignation seemed real on this one. He hadn’t left the notes on my door.

“Do either of you believe any of this?” Brad went on, looking at his father and sister.

“Before your wife died she left you when she found you having an affair with a fourteen-year-old girl four years ago. My friend with the computer found out,” I said. “She filed for divorce. Civil case. Could have been statutory rape but the police never found out or didn’t care. No evidence. Your wife died. Divorce proceedings ended. You said she died of cancer. The records show…”

“Hit-and-run,” said Laura. “Never found who did it.”

“We have an idea now,” I said. “Don’t we? This time we have a damn good idea.”

“This time?” asked Lonsberg.

“My wife died in a hit-and-run accident. I didn’t want her to. I wasn’t having an affair.”